


By the Fire in Your Hearth

by salakavala



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: A pinch of Norse mythology, Alternate Universe, Deception, Feelings, Frottage, If you go down in the woods today..., Ironwood - Freeform, Jotunn Loki (Marvel), Loki and Thor Are Not Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-07-23 08:13:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16155104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salakavala/pseuds/salakavala
Summary: Thor agrees to find and return the renounced prince of Jotunheim back to King Laufey. However, when he stumbles upon a tower with an imprisoned Loki in the depths of Ironwood, little does he know that he has found what he is looking for.EDIT 31.3.2019: I am almost entirely reworking the majority of the story, so updating will still take some time. I AM, however, working on this fic, and it WILL be updated eventually.





	By the Fire in Your Hearth

**Author's Note:**

> This. I have been working on this story for months. It has become my joy and my bane, and finally, _finally_ I can push it out to you. I don't remember having so many hair-tearing moments of unsuppressed screaming with any other story of mine, not as I've had with this one, so please, take it.
> 
> This fic is completely finished, so there shouldn't be any major delays in updates. I still need to proof-read/edit each chapter before posting, and the second and the third chapters need a little more work than the others, but I'll try not to take too long to finalize them.
> 
> All that said, I do hope you'll enjoy this!

 

 

**I**

Deep in the Realm of Jotunheim, far beyond Utgard and the reach of its frozen throne, surrounded by boundless plains and icy mountains lies Ironwood. An ancient, foreboding forest, where nights are endless and days are hopeless in their gloom, it is a cradle to all born of peril and terror, and a home to Angrboda, the Harbinger of Sorrow, she, who is the Lady of the woods. Ironwood is her domain, one that not even the King of Jotunheim dares trespass. Indeed, no one who values his life enters the forest, and even of those, who hold no regard for life whatsoever, only few brave the monstrous terrors within – as so it is that in entering Ironwood one is not risking only his life and sanity, but his very soul to the impenetrable darkness and its terrible Queen.

Tales such as that are probably the reason why Laufey has not sent his warriors to retrieve Loki, for when it comes down to it, the King of Jotunheim is a coward. A fearful man sitting on a throne of ice, pretending he doesn’t care for what he is too afraid to pursue – be it the life of the runt he left to die on a block of ice, or the Casket of Ancient Winters that he ceded to his enemy in exchange of his pitiful life.

It’s Angrboda who shared the news with Loki, about the end of the war; by the time Laufey suffered defeat at the hands of Odin, the one called the Allfather and the Conqueror, she had already imprisoned Loki in his secluded tower in the depths of Ironwood.

It has been nigh a century, since then. In all that time, Loki hasn’t missed her once.

It’s not really the loneliness of his confinement that grates on him; Loki has always been alone, for the most part of his life, even when he still lived in Utgard and had tutors and brothers and a father. No, being alone should not be an issue to anyone who has half a brain cell and some minimal knowledge of how to use it. Instead what has been taking its toll, more and more so of late, is the loss of his freedom. Angrboda’s spell prevents Loki from stepping outside his prison, and even Loki’s own not insignificant magical skills are powerless before her barrier. The nature of her magic is different from that of his, and she fuelled her spellwork with a drop of Loki's own blood, so Loki cannot break it himself – no matter how he pushes, the spell pushes back with equal force.

The loss of his freedom is particularly taxing because it’s something that Loki used to have and enjoy for decades, before he understood that it wasn’t an apprentice that Angrboda wanted, but a tool to be moulded for her own purposes. He was a fool to have confronted her, back then, instead of simply biding his time and slipping away when a possibility presented itself.

Well. There is little use in lamenting an escaped prey, but at least he learnt his lesson. Sooner or later something is bound to happen – and when it does, Loki will seize the chance and leave this entire wretched realm behind without so much as a drop of hesitation. He only needs to be patient.

 

 

 

It's an evening like any other when his long wait is rewarded.

Loki is lounging in a plush chair he has dragged in front of the hearth, leafing through one of the books he used to hoard back when the tower still served as his personal study space instead of a prison. It’s a quiet evening, like they tend to be, and only the constant crackling in the fireplace breaks the otherwise dragging silence. The heat of the fire doesn’t bother Loki; on the contrary, he welcomes the additional warmth. It’s merely another disadvantage of his slight frame, for even though his Jotun physique does provide some protection against the perpetual cold, his tolerance is considerably weaker than that of his fully developed kin. Not that it matters much; accepting the flaws of his body got increasingly easier since he got out of the hearing range of his brothers’ jeers about his inadequacies. Besides, what Loki lacks in physical size, he has in abundance as quick wit and sharp mind, something that cannot be said for most of his people.

He isn’t really concentrating on his reading – at this point he could probably recite most of it by heart, if he tried. Instead, he lets his mind wander, and maybe this idleness is why he senses the subtle change in the air when he does.

It starts with a ripple, distant, yet undeniably there, and is soon after followed by ominous rumbling. Nothing to give ground for worry, but Loki puts his book down and listens. There – again, a ripple, and then more rumbling, as if a distant storm. As if thunder.

Loki frowns; it isn’t right. Jotunheim only has thunderstorms in the short weeks of summer, and rarely so far in the north – certainly never in Ironwood. But this… storm, or whatever it is, seems to come from _with_ _in_ Ironwood. It must, or Loki wouldn’t be able to sense it, and it most certainly is not of the natural kind. It feels different from everything else in the forest. It feels different from everything else Loki has ever felt at all, this disturbance in the heavy air of the woods.

He listens, but senses only silence. Whatever it was, it has calmed.

With a long exhale Loki forces his painfully beating heart back into the cradle of his ribcage, where it belongs, and takes a deep breath. Something is happening in the woods. Someone is _in_ the woods, someone who doesn’t belong there, someone powerful enough to make the air crackle and the hair stand at the nape of Loki’s neck as deep in as his tower. As far as he knows, no one, since Angrboda found him and brought him to Ironwood, has entered the forest and survived beyond the first night – no one, aside Angrboda herself and Loki, when he was still permitted to come and go as he pleased.

Until now, until this intruder. Or a visitor? It’s not even important; friend or foe, it’s what Loki has been waiting for decades: _a_ _chance_.

The rest of the night is peaceful, but he scarcely sleeps anyway. Once, after nightfall, he hears – and feels – the rumbling again, closer to his tower this time, but it subsides quickly, and nothing else alerts him from his fitful sleep. Nothing changes in the morning, either, or throughout the day, even though he spends it on pins and needles, picking up books just to discard them, taking up enchantments simply to grow weary of them. Never before have the walls around him felt so heavy and oppressing.

When something finally happens Loki is in the middle of picking at his dinner; whatever Angrboda wishes to do with him, starving him is evidently not among her plans. Every morning and evening a simple meal appears on Loki's table for him to do with as he pleases. Most times he eats it. Other times, when he has no appetite – which is often enough – he animates the fish or the elk and makes it walk off the table and waddle to the window and limply fall out from there when the barrier stops his magic. Not a particularly brilliant use of his skills, true, but at least the food sometimes attracts wolves or smaller scavengers, and, well, there are times when wolfish company is better than none.

The food, however, is all on the table when he hears a long wail of a wolf – multiple wolves – break the quiet air around his tower. Loki has barely enough time to turn his head towards the window in mild curiosity when he sees the white flash of light momentarily shatter the darkness, and jumps at the loud rumble of thunder that instantly follows it.

Loki doesn't even think – he drops his knife and rushes to the window, heart hammering in his chest. It takes him but an instant to shift into a black cat and jump on the window ledge, and he lands on it on time to catch another flash of lightning, for it _is_ lightning, there is no question about that. It originates somewhere behind the ancient trees, and Loki nearly howls in frustration; all the trees ever do is block everything from him, be it obscuring the sky and any light the sun, moon, or stars might have otherwise provided, or the mysterious stranger in the woods. What if the intruder won't see his tower and passes it by, leaving Loki to rot there for another century until he finally breaks and surrenders to Angrboda, or loses his mind in captivity?

But no: a moment later his sharp cat-eyes catch movement behind the closest trees, and a figure, a... a _man_ steps out onto the small clearing, halting as he takes note of what he's stumbled upon.

Loki has to blink several times to believe his eyes. It cannot be possible. He must be mistaken, maybe the darkness-- But no. It is a man, and he is _not_ Jotun.

No, what Loki sees is clearly, undeniably, despite the improbability of it, an Asgardian. A solid man with a golden mane and a pair of arms that could probably lift the entire World Tree along with its roots if he were so inclined. A fur-lined cape hangs heavy over his broad shoulders, discernibly crimson even in the ever-present darkness, still and unmoving in the dead air of Ironwood. In his hand he holds a weapon, a massive hammer that reminds Loki of… But no, there is only one person that Loki – that anyone in Jotunheim – associates with a hammer and a combination of red, gold, and silver, and that’s--

The man has evidently looked his fill and starts towards the tower.

 _\--that’s impossible._ Loki recoils from the window and nearly thuds on the floor, saved only by the natural grace of the form he currently inhabits. No, the last person he would expect to see in Ironwood is the Golden Prince of Asgard himself… yet the man outside is the very image of any description Loki has ever heard of the son of Odin. It must be, it truly must be the infamous Thor, and he is currently marching straight towards Loki’s door.

His first instinct is, of course, to hide – what other reason would the Odinson have to seek out Loki than to slay the deformed runt where he stands? Peace with the Aesir has not yet lasted even a century, not a fraction of the era of hostilities between them, and there is no guarantee at all that any Asgardian would feel a thimble of benevolence towards a Jotun.

On the other hand, it _is_ possible that the Odinson is not here for Loki specifically – and even if he were, it's not like Loki would throw away the only chance he's got in a century just to play it safe.

A bang lands on his door with a shattering force, and Loki jolts, hissing a curse. The last thing he needs is the Odinson shattering his tower while Loki still can't leave it. Being stuck within the stone walls is bad enough, but being stuck in the ruins of those stone walls is an idea he's even less fond of.

Without further deliberation or even a minimal plan, Loki shifts into his Aesir frame, the one in which he used to sneak into Asgardian camps during the war, when he still had his freedom. He had blended right in with his pale skin, black hair, and strangely green eyes, just one among many in his pilfered Asgardian attire. No one questioned his presence despite the many hours he spent at their fires, and if the soldiers swallowed up Loki's disguise, surely their prince will as well.

The second knock shakes the walls, and Loki rushes to the entrance. He takes one last look at himself, and then, before a third knock might bring down the entire tower, pushes the door open--

\-- to find himself almost nose to nose with the Odinson.

It was, of course, to be expected, yet still, somehow, a small _oh_ slips past Loki's lips. It's just that-- Thor's eyes are awfully blue, so close up. So unlike what Loki is used to. It's a little unsettling, to have them land directly on him.

Even more unsettling, however, is the Odinson's hammer, raised high in clear preparation to smash the wood in, only now it's aimed at Loki.

Thor's brows climb up on his forehead as he blinks at him. “You… are not a Frost Giant,” he states a little dumbly.

Loki releases the breath he was not aware of holding. “No.” It's not even necessarily a lie; his Aesir skin is real, not an illusion, which is something that Loki quite acutely feels now that he’s standing by the opened door wearing only a casual tunic and leggings.

Thor lowers his hammer, though does not put it away, and brings his hand to his chest in greeting. “Forgive me. I'm Thor, son of Odin, and I meant no offence. It’s just that I’m here in search of a runaway Jotun, and I wasn't aware of anyone else residing in this forest, let alone a fellow Asgardian. Hence my surprise at finding…” His gaze sweeps from Loki's head to his toe and back up again. “...you.”

Loki shakes his head to snap himself out of whatever trance he's apparently fallen into. It might have been a while since he has last seen another person, but he's certainly better than _this_ , so he gets a grip and reminds himself that he is supposed to be a regular foot soldier standing before his prince. Surely the Asgardians practise some basic court etiquette? That should be fairly universal in any royal house.

So Loki bows his head and casts his eyes low. “My prince.”

He can't resist peeking at the reaction, but instead of accepting this sign of subordination, Thor wrinkles his nose in a rather unprincely manner. “Please, friend, none of that. We are far from the throne room out here, and I'm but a guest asking for refuge under your roof from this damned cold. This forest appears to be bigger than I thought.” The last bit he adds as an afterthought, like he heard the name Ironwood and imagined a palace garden.

Refusing the royal forms of proper address is a little bizarre, and for a moment Loki tries imagining Laufey, as he remembers him, doing the same. He can't. No one would respect an authority, let alone a king, who disregarded appropriate ways of being addressed. However, this turn of events makes it much easier for Loki, as he has never been particularly compliant by nature. Having to crawl in front of a foreign prince would have grated on him terribly.

He steps aside to let his unexpected guest in. “Of course.”

He subtly eyes Thor as he walks past him into the tower. There are no signs of any sort of struggle on his armour, not a tear on his cape. Even the fur lining remains thick and whole, only slightly dampened by snowflakes, as if it actually _were_ a royal garden Thor had visited and not the most dangerous place in Jotunheim.

The way from Utgard to Ironwood is long, and both the snowy plains between the woods and the nearest settlements, and the forest itself are practically brimming with all sorts of bloodthirsty creatures – and in the Realm of Nevermelting Ice, no such creature would pass the opportunity for fresh meat. Especially not in Ironwood. Which means that either the Odinson simply didn't encounter any – which is unlikely – or then the tales which Loki heard of his prowess at Asgardian camps during his little trespasses were not as blatantly exaggerated as he had believed.

A shiver runs up his back, and he swiftly closes the door. “Were the inhabitants of the forest any trouble, my, er, prince?”

“Not at all,” Thor says and hangs his hammer from the hook beside the door, casual as one might. Then he turns to Loki to regard him with a ridiculously sunny smile and that deeply unsettling view of blue. “And please, call me Thor.”

For some reason, that only annoys Loki.

“Thor,” he repeats, trying to keep most of the derision out of his voice. There is no room for stray thoughts now – this might be the only chance he ever gets to win back his freedom, and it won't do to botch it just because the Asgardian prince is apparently a total fool. At least he believes Loki to be a fellow Asgardian… which is a topic Loki should take care to avoid as much as possible, for all he knows of the Realm Eternal he has either read from books, or heard from the warriors during the war. It truly wouldn't hurt to start building some sort of a plan of action sometime soon.

His eyes fall on the abandoned dinner table. The food is never anything fancy, certainly nothing like Thor is probably used to in his golden halls, but it is a distraction. More importantly, there is wine, which may serve Loki a great deal if applied correctly.

“You must be hungry,” he says sweetly, walking into his living space and gesturing for Thor to sit down at the table.

“I must admit I am.” Thor takes the offered bench gratefully. “Thank you. Your generosity is much appreciated.”

“I’m afraid it's nothing befitting a prince,” Loki answers, and it takes effort to sound apologetic instead of bitter.

“Nonsense. It's food and it keeps a man on his feet,” Thor tells him, and if he took note of Loki’s tone he doesn’t remark upon it. Still, it doesn't escape Loki's notice that he skims over the bread, boiled eggs, and the fish a little mournfully. There is certainly more than enough for Loki alone, especially considering that he is confined to his tower, but Thor is rather large, and has had at least two days to deepen his appetite in the woods.

Loki casually grabs a horn and fills it with wine, before Thor might pick a goblet; a full horn can't be put down, and the looser Thor's tongue becomes, the safer the false ground on which Loki treads.

Thor accepts the wine with gratitude. Loki settles his hip against the table, trying to look helpful and trustworthy.

“So, what brings you here? You mentioned a runaway Jotun? Perhaps I may be of assistance.”

“Perhaps you may,” replies Thor, and empties the horn in three mighty gulps. He sets it down with a slam and wipes his lips with the back of his hand, eyeing Loki with interest. “But I would shame my mother with my poor manners if I demanded the help of a man whose name I haven't even bothered to ask. Tell me, friend, who are you, and what has driven you to this wretched forest? I haven’t encountered another Asgardian in this frozen kingdom since my father defeated Laufey and claimed his Casket.”

What, indeed? That plan Loki was thinking of having, it would have been of great use sometime about now. But no matter, he will just improvise. That's what it has always come down to, anyway. He refills Thor’s horn to win some time, but, instead of drinking the wine, Thor merely holds the horn, eyes intent on Loki. He doesn't look suspecting, merely curious, but his gaze is intense, sky-blue framed with dark lashes like a warning of a thunderstorm.

Loki’s mouth works before he has time to contemplate the wisdom of his lie.

“I was taken prisoner.”

The change in Thor’s demeanour is immediate and more than a little intimidating – it's a dark storm cloud that appeared out of nowhere and swallowed the sun. His features twist in anger as he smashes the still full wine horn on the floor, and when he stands up in rage, Loki recoils, taken aback by the sudden outburst.

“ _Prisoner_ _?_ ” Thor roars, extending his arm, and the hammer which he left by the door flies through the air into his grip. “It was agreed in the treaty that no Asgardian or Jotun remains imprisoned, and all shall be released to return to their people! How deep does the treachery run in Jotun blood, for them to break the peace right when it was forged?”

 _Damn_ , thinks Loki, and flinches when Thor's hand lands heavy on his shoulder, squeezing it firmly. His blue eyes have turned stormy, and he holds Loki's gaze with almost frightening intensity.

“I swear to you, I will personally collect the price that Laufey will pay for his betrayal and the injustice done to you.” Thor's voice has dropped, his hand heavy by Loki's neck, his grip nearly bruising. “Indeed it is true what our people say – that the only trustworthy Jotun is a dead one!”

An involuntary shiver runs up Loki's back to the nape of his neck; the air ripples with electrifying power around him, the room has gone darker and the skies outside rumble ominously, resonating inside Loki’s belly. A distracted part of his mind suddenly recalls all the retellings of Thor's battle rage during the war, how he slew Helblindi’s unit nigh alone, how thunder raged on every battlefield he entered. And now that thunder and fury are not on some distant front line, not even at Loki’s doorstep, but _right in front of him_.

“No!”

Thor’s brows knit into a frown, and it's not the slightly perplexed expression he had earlier. “What?”

Loki swallows and dearly hopes that whatever is about to spill from his mouth will have a placating effect on Thor, or, at least, won’t make matters worse. “No,” he repeats, carefully bringing his hand to wrap around Thor's vambrace in a placating gesture, and goes with the truth. “Because it’s not Laufey who took my freedom and locked me here. It’s Angrboda, the Lady of this forest. The Harbinger of Sorrow.”

For as much as Loki hates and despises the man who sired him, and treats his people with the same disdain with which they have always treated him, he does not wish another war on Jotunheim. Such unrest between realms, particularly when Asgard is involved, would only jeopardize Loki’s chances to escape, and his chances are minute to begin with. No, war is not what he wants… but, having had a taste of Thor's power, he is beginning to see that he may yet gain much from this unexpected encounter.

He only needs to be careful.

So he holds Thor’s gaze and continues, “I doubt that Laufey is even aware of my presence in his kingdom. He has no power in these woods – only Angrboda rules here.”

Thor’s anger seems to dissipate somewhat, but his frown remains. “Who exactly is this Angrboda? I have heard only very little of her.”

Loki permits himself a small sigh of relief; Thor has a temper, but least he’s capable of listening. Which, though, also means that Loki has to weigh his words carefully.

“She’s a powerful Jotun sorceress,” he explains slowly, mind racing to draft a plan. “I participated in the war. Near the end of it I was wounded and left in snow, believed dead. Angrboda found me there under a Jotun corpse. She took me in, healed me, and when she offered me to stay, I accepted. It's only later that I became her prisoner.”

Thor’s frown deepens, but it’s no longer in rage. Instead, he relinquishes his hold on Loki's shoulder and sits back down, thoughtful. Loki allows himself a slow exhale. Thunder is still rippling in the air, and under no circumstances does Loki want it directed at himself after this little display. Whatever he does, he must tread cautiously – he is fairly certain he won’t particularly enjoy the consequences, should his true heritage become known to this hot-blooded warrior. He was evidently right in that; a written treaty does little to inspire actual love between their races. In his true frame he would be nothing but Thor's enemy by the virtue of his blood alone.

“Why would this witch have need of you?” Thor asks the frankly rather sensible question, and ducks to pick up the horn he broke. “Sorry,” he adds, strangely sheepish in contrast to his righteous fury mere moments ago.

Loki waves at the two halves of the horn dismissively – it doesn’t matter now. What matters is the gamble he is about to enter.

“I am not averse to magic,” he begins, keeping an eye on Thor’s expression; the way he understands it, Asgard is not particularly forthcoming about magic, at least as a trait of warriors. But Thor's brows only rise a little, his face remaining otherwise neutral. Emboldened, Loki goes on, “In fact, I have some skill and understanding in it. Angrboda never shares her reasons, but I suspect it was half curiosity and half belief in my magical potential.” There, practically another truth. At this rate, no one would even be able to accuse him of dishonesty.

Thor regards him solemnly. “And now you are her prisoner.”

It has been a century – plenty of time to process the betrayal. And yet, Loki has never _spoken_ of it before, certainly not to anyone else. Now that he does, the surge of bitterness on his tongue takes even him by surprise. “Yes. Now I am her prisoner. I stayed with her because I thought I had a choice, but when I wanted to leave, turned out I didn’t. I only had the illusion of one.” His lips tighten into a line. A brief thought flashes through his mind, telling him that he's being a little _too_ truthful in his tale, but he disregards it and swallows around the acrid lump in his throat. “I haven't set my foot outside this tower in decades, and neither will I do so until Angrboda either lifts her spell, or enters the domains of Hel, where she belongs.”

Thor rises on his feet, hands on the tabletop. “That shan’t continue. I won’t allow it.”

Well, it seems then that the Golden Prince of Asgard is driven by temper, but guided by sentiment. Easy enough characteristics to manipulate. Yet the look on his face is so sincere that Loki has to lower his eyes, unable to bear it.

Thor sits back down and grabs a loaf of rye bread, tearing a mighty piece out and biting into it. He chews thoughtfully, as if what he just said were nothing, as if such statements could be lightly made and held little meaning. Like freeing Loki were but a moment's work.

“What you tell me is not very different from what I was told at Utgard,” Thor says around his mouthful. “I was warned not to trust that witch.”

Loki's eyes snap back to him. “Utgard? Were you sent here from Utgard?”

“I was not _sent_ from anywhere,” Thor snorts, unaware of the chill his words have shot through Loki. “I was there on an unrelated diplomatic matter. Angrboda's name came up when Laufey asked for my help in finding his third son.”

The air turns to ice in Loki’s lungs. “His third son.”

Thor nods, continues eating. “I didn't know he had a third one, either. I only knew of Helblindi and… the other one. Byleistr? But apparently there is a third son, too, though Laufey tells me he was renounced and banished before the war. He is why I'm here – apparently he's trying to sabotage the peace with Asgard, and Laufey suspects he might have partnered with this Angrboda to seize the throne. This is rather convenient, actually. Now I only need to find the witch to both free you of your curse and catch the hiding prince.”

Loki barely hears him – his ears are buzzing with silent, white noise. Laufey! So, after all these years, these centuries, Laufey is now seeking to bring back his rejected son, the renounced prince he once left to die. And under what pretence? Named a _traitor_ , of all things, to be put in chains by the son of the man who once forced Laufey's own knees into the snow! Truly a king crowned with Cowardice, if he must trick a man mightier than himself into retrieving the son who he has neither strength nor courage to confront himself. And to still call Loki his son? The sheer _gall_.

“Tell me,” grits Loki, forcing the words through his teeth and struggling not to snap them in half as he speaks, “Did Laufey give you the name of this Jotun scum he wishes to reclaim?”

“No,” Thor tells him, pouring wine into a goblet now that the horn lies in two halves, wine spreading on the floor like rich red blood. “He said this son has none. That any name he carries is a lie.”

This final insult cuts deeper than Loki would have thought possible, after all these years. Cuts right through the scar tissue into the wound that, instead of healing, has festered and filled with poison. He remembers when it was inflicted, when a father took his yet small runt of a son into the wilderness and sat him down upon an icy rock, and looked him in the eyes and buried him there with his words. His voice still echoes in Loki’s mind, colder than wind, sharper than ice, a twisted version of their ancient burial rites.

 _You were named Loki, but you grew to be a mistake, a twisted image of what you should have_ _become_ _. You bring shame to your kin and to this land,_ _and_ _to the name_ _that_ _you_ _carry_ _, and thus_ _it_ _is now meaningless; it is a lie,_ _and as are you,_ _so is your name nothing_ _. I renounce you as my kin, Loki, son of no one, and_ _leave you for the snow_ _y_ _winds, and you will be buried in the eternal ice,_ _and become_ _the_ _nothing_ _you should have become already in birth_ _._

Had Angrboda not found him then, that’s precisely what would have become of Loki, the forgotten prince of Jotunheim, the little child betrayed by his own father.

A cold flame ignites within him, burning his lungs as he chokes a bitter laugh. What a thorn it must be in your flesh, _father_ , that instead of nothing I became more skilful a sorcerer than any warrior within the walls of Utgard, taught by the most powerful sorceress in Jotunheim. May that thorn fester and poison your blood, and may you die in agony of it, remembering the name of the little runt you left to die!

“And what is yours?”

Loki gasps, and snaps back into the present, into the company of this golden warrior who looks at him with eyes as blue as ice but warm as sweetest wine, and who gestures at the wooden bench in invitation to join him for the meal.

“Your name,” Thor clarifies as Loki fails to respond. “I have yet failed to coax it from you, but I’m determined to hear it now.”

Yes, Loki thinks, slowly joining him at the table. Yes, there is much he may yet gain, and much that Laufey will yet grow to regret. Such sweet, sweet irony – the man who Laufey sent to capture Loki, the mightiest warrior in all the Nine Realms, will be the one to warrant Loki his freedom instead. Freedom from Laufey, from Angrboda, from the entire Jotunheim – for Loki has found his gate away, and this gate leads to Asgard.

“Loki,” he tells Thor, and returns his smile. “My name is Loki.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you are heartily welcome to come talk about thorki or this fic with me on my tumblr at [salakavala7](https://salakavala7.tumblr.com/). :)


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